Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement (8 page)

“Show me who you are,” I whisper. “Not just the power.”

I see a flicker of something in his eyes, something that looks a lot like fear. But it’s gone in an instant as he jumps to life; grabs me, turns with me in his arms, pressing my back into the firm mattress and diving inside of me with a fierce unrestrained energy. And as always I give in to it completely. I wrap my arms around him, feel him as he reaches further into my depths than any other man ever has.

And then something happens; he moves a lock of hair from my face, looks into my eyes as he moves inside of me. Gently, delicately, he traces the line of my mouth with his fingers. And I see another flash—this time it’s vulnerability, a need that can’t quite be drowned out by this flood of primitive desire. I’m seeing something different here, something I’ve only had glimpses of before. I put my hand on his chest and feel the beat of his turmoil.

It’s only a moment but it’s enough. When he drags my leg over his shoulder and thrusts inside of me, even deeper now, the intensity is off the chart. I’ve seen something I’m sure very few others have seen and the forbidden nature of the reveal has brought our ecstasy to new heights. He bites down on my shoulder as my hips rise to meet him. I smell his sweat, the scent of our mingled desire.

Suddenly he stops and flips me over on my stomach. I spread my legs expectantly but he pulls away. I try to make sense of what’s happening as he gets up and stands at the end of the bed. But there’s no time. In a moment he’s grabbed my thighs in his hands and he’s dragging me down the mattress, toward the edge of the bed until he is standing between my legs, which are now supported by nothing but his hands, with my hips and torso still on the bed. And that’s when he enters me again. I can’t see him, but I can feel every inch of him. With my legs in the air I feel weightless, grounded only by him. His pace is aggressive, as if he can’t get enough of me, and with each thrust the world seems to shake. My fingernails scrape the tangled bedsheets as I try to find something to keep me from floating away in a wave of ecstasy as the second orgasm overtakes me.

But we’re not done. This time it’s my turn to pull away. I turn to him and drag him back down on the bed, climbing on top of him once more. I’m shaky now, still reeling from the heights of passion he’s brought me to, but I manage to regain enough control to reset our rhythm. I throw my head back as I ride him, his hands on my waist. Again, I start to tremble but I only move faster. The orgasm has me in its grips but somehow I keep moving as the fire inside me rages, warming me, making me ache with a unique satisfaction, a special triumph as he joins me in this climax, coming inside me in a tender explosion.

And as I collapse on top of him, my breathing erratic and gasping like a runner who has just finished a sprint, I wonder, what is the true nature of the prize I’ve claimed?

I wonder if I’ll ever know.

CHAPTER 10

T
HE DAYS BEGIN
to take on a certain pulse. I’m getting better and better at my job. Even Mr. Costin’s forced display of respect has taken on a genuine quality. Asha no longer challenges me, at least not with her words, although when I see her, in the hall, in a meeting, driving past me in the garage, I always feel her almond-shaped eyes on me, studying me, calculating, looking for the weak spot where she can sink the blade. I don’t blame her. I had my chance at revenge and I took it. I made her pay. Why should she be different? The only thing that separates us now is opportunity.

Today’s Friday and I’m going over the new accounts coming in, strategizing on how to reach businesses that have yet to reach out to us. The impossible is beginning to feel normal. I don’t stop and stare every time I pass a mirror anymore. I don’t fret over my increasingly frequent little displays of aggression and ruthlessness. It’s all part of the game and the game is part of who I am now.

I’ve been practically living with Robert. Each night he surprises me. Last night he greeted me with a glass of expensive scotch, a reminder of our beginnings. He had prepared a milk bath, like the ones Cleopatra had once indulged in. I had stepped inside, naked, watching as the cream enveloped me, feeling the way it lapped against my skin, between my legs, as Robert had carefully moved a bath mitt over my back, kissed my shoulders, fed me grapes that were such a dark shade of purple they were almost black. I had closed my eyes when he moved to wash my stomach. His hand had moved down my thighs, then up again, back and forth, until he finally, gently, touched my sex, building the ecstasy until the creamy sensuality of the milk and the burst of the grape became perfect analogies to the juices and explosions of my own body.

Last night he blindfolded me, tied me to the bed, made it so I was unable to experience anything other than the feeling of him, the touch of his fingers, the sound of his breathing, the smell of his aftershave, even the tickle of his five-o’clock shadow. Helpless, yearning, aching . . . and all for him. In that moment he was my world.

I stay at my place only when I have Simone over. I don’t know why but bringing her to Robert’s is an idea I’ve yet to become comfortable with. That part of my life is too private for me to share with my best friend, I suppose . . . or maybe I’m not ready for her to see what I’m like when I’m with him. Simone’s not the sort to judge, but this change in me . . . she’ll at least have an opinion on it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what that opinion is.

I still haven’t told my parents about Dave. In fact, I haven’t even called them since the breakup and that was . . . well, a lifetime ago. They’ve called me a few times but I either don’t pick up or I come up with an excuse that requires me to cut the call short. So we’ve been communicating through e-mails and we’ve exchanged a text or two, but I’ve revealed nothing. I haven’t even told them about my new job and I’m certainly not prepared to tell them how I got it—as far as they’re concerned I’m still their perfect daughter doing all the things they have always wanted me to do. They don’t know about the change. They don’t know that the woman they know as their daughter is almost unrecognizable. It’s almost as if she’s gone.

Almost.

My hand shakes, just slightly, as these thoughts move through my mind but I quickly discard the contemplations and open another file. My security blanket is still made up of decimals and dollar signs and I find myself immediately soothed as I lose myself in their concrete comfort.

Yes, everything is fine.

*   *   *

I KNOW ROBERT
is going to be working late tonight. He’s meeting with his engineers and marketers, who are preparing for the launch of a new and improved security system for individuals’ financial accounts, something to protect us when the retailers we shop with have their systems hacked by cyber-criminals. If it works, it will change the world . . . for those who can afford the change.

I decide to go out to dinner by myself. I haven’t done that for some time. I can go anywhere. I can eat at Urasawa, arguably the most expensive restaurant in LA and possibly the country, or Mélisse, a restaurant even the French admire for its quality of cuisine and ambiance. Getting a table at these places is normally impossible but if I call Robert, he’ll ensure they have a table waiting for me. He’s already given me power and wealth, what’s a dinner reservation?

But I don’t take advantage of his influence. Not tonight, not for dinner. Instead I go to Chipotle. I don’t know why—other than that its middle-class appeal and bare-bones décor offer a certain comfort of their own. There’s no pretense here, no airs; just decent, reasonably healthy food at basement prices. It’s a simple formula that has all the elements for corporate success and, well, corporate success makes me happy.

So I order an Izze and a burrito bowl with a side of guac and find a clean table in the corner where I can enjoy my meal undisturbed.

I’m only halfway through my bowl when Dave walks in.

Dave. My former fiancé, the man who almost broke me before I turned and broke his heart, the man who wanted to control me, mold me into the perfect Martha’s Vineyard–style wife, the man who values image and refinement above all else . . .

 . . . the man who normally wouldn’t be caught dead in a Chipotle.

I study him from my corner as he gets in line. He doesn’t look good. There are dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a day, maybe even two. And he’s wearing jeans, not a suit. Dave lives in suits during the week. It’s barely six o’clock. There’s simply no way he went home and changed just so he could drive back into the city to go to Chipotle.

And yet he’s here.

He shuffles his feet a little as he moves through the line. I wait until it’s his turn to order before I get up, move closer without his noticing as he struggles to explain himself to the eighteen-year-old in the black shirt and white apron.

“I want a wrap . . . or, I guess you call them burritos here? Can I get one with meat that isn’t spicy; are they all spicy?”

“Get the pork.”

He turns, startled by the sound of my voice. His face colors once he registers that yes, I’m really here, seeing him like this.

“The pork isn’t spicy,” I explain. When he doesn’t answer, I look to his server. “He’ll have the carnitas burrito with brown rice and black beans.”

The employee nods and complies. I walk Dave through the Chipotle’s version of a burrito assembly line, instructing them to put in the mild salsa, light on the guacamole, no cheese, no cream. Dave lets me lead him through this foreign ritual without comment, moving like a man who is only partially awake. He doesn’t protest when I pay or lead him back to my table.

We sit across from each other in silence for a full minute.

“You’ve changed,” he finally says.

The observation seems comically ironic. His face seems to have aged ten years in four weeks. I have loved this man and I have hated him but right now the only emotion I can muster is concern . . . and curiosity.

“Did you come here from the office?” I ask. Obviously he didn’t but the question feels like a safe place to start.

He shakes his head, wraps his mouth around the burrito, and chews.

“So you didn’t work today?” I press.

He stares at me, his blue eyes are dulled with exhaustion. “You know the answer to that.”

“How could I possibly—”

“I was fired.”

“Oh Dave, I’m so sor—”

“Spare me! You’re the one who got me fired. You and your new lover.”

The air changes quality; the voices of the patrons around us diminish to an unintelligible hum.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper.

“No one else will hire me. He’s seen to that. I’ve been blackballed.”

“Why are you so sure Robert had anything to do with this?”

His eyes flash with something I’ve seen before.

“You think I got myself fired? You think it’s my fault?”

“Dave—”

Patrons are beginning to look over in our direction. “You think that the moment I lost you I became incompetent?” he shouts. “That I’m unable to live without you even now that I know you’re a whore?”

I sigh audibly, my sympathy sliding to the floor like a forgotten paper napkin. This is the version of Dave I know. This is the man I hated. But I don’t hate him anymore. Now he just bores me.

I stand up, no longer hungry. “Enjoy your dinner,” I say. “Next time your treat.”

He keeps his head bowed; I can’t see his face but I can visualize the scowl. I’ve seen it before, no need to retrace my steps on this muddy road. He mutters something that I think is meant for me but I can’t quite make it out.

“What was that?” I ask impatiently.

He looks up with bloodshot eyes; the scowl I expected isn’t there. What is there is much more disturbing.

“Help me,” he whispers. “Please, Kasie. He’s taken everything.”

I feel a tightening in my chest; slowly I lower myself back to my seat.

“They’re saying I embezzled money. That’s why they made me leave. They accused me of being a thief.”

“You would never—”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t risk it. It’s not who I am.”

Somewhere in the restaurant there is a baby crying, screaming the way babies do when they need to communicate their pain without words. “Are they pressing charges?” I ask.

“No, they said if I left voluntarily, they wouldn’t. But they promised me they could prove it, they showed me evidence . . . it’s fake but even to me it looked real. These people, they know me, they trained me, promised me a future. They know I’m being set up . . . and they don’t care. The club I used to belong to? They revoked my membership. They won’t tell me why. These were my friends . . . I thought they were my friends.” He looks down at his hands folded in his lap, the burrito carnitas mangled and unappealing on a paper plate. “Help me,” he whispers again.

I shake my head. I feel dizzy. Robert couldn’t be responsible for this. Would he even have that power?

Of course he did. It’s like Mr. Costin said, Robert sits on the boards of many of the city’s major businesses and is a major stockholder in the rest. He was able to get women from several of the companies that contract with my firm to make false accusations against Tom. Why couldn’t he do the same thing to Dave? It fit the pattern.

And for the first time I realize that this is probably a pattern that started when he saw similar things done to his father.

But
would
he do it? What would be the point? Even if he didn’t share in my compassion for this man, there are still other things that would stop him, right? After all, Robert knows I don’t want Dave talking to my parents and although Dylan Freeland must know something about what went down by now I really don’t need Dave filling in the details. If Robert had stripped Dave of everything he cared about, it would leave me vulnerable to his attacks . . .

 . . . which leads me to another realization.

“You didn’t tell,” I breathe. “You had every reason to betray me and you didn’t.”

He laughs; it’s an ugly sound, heavy with misery and derision. “Don’t mistake me for something I’m not. I haven’t learned benevolence in the time we’ve been apart. I went to Dylan.”

“But that’s not possible; Mr. Freeland would have—”

“Dylan Freeland has always been like a father to me,” Dave says in a frightening monotone. “He’s always been there for me. I love him, Kasie.”

His voice shakes at this last part. I almost reach for him but stop myself, unsure if our history makes such intimacies prohibited. So instead I just nod sympathetically. “I know,” I say.

“He’s broken. I don’t know what your Mr. Dade has on him—”

“Wait, you’re saying it’s more than just the threat of losing business—”

“Does he enjoy it?” he asks, cutting me off. “Diminishing Dylan like that? Making him feel so weak that he can’t even make decisions for his own company? So weak that instead of helping his godson he tells him to keep quiet. He basically told me that if I know what’s good for me, I’ll tuck my tail between my legs and slink off before more of Robert Dade’s wrath is brought down. So does Mr. Dade get off on the dominance?” He hesitates only a moment before adding, “Do you?”

I keep very still, unwilling to react to what might be a lie. And it could be; Dave has always been a liar. Still . . . there’s something to this story. . . .

Why hasn’t Mr. Freeland been at the firm for a while? Tom being fired, my promotion . . . Mr. Costin had scolded me for it, he was willing to take that risk, but not Mr. Freeland. I cheated on his godson and he hadn’t so much as sent me an angry e-mail.

Why?

Dave is telling you why,
my angel says,
you just don’t want to hear.

My throat tightens. “Have you told my parents? I understand if you did. I—”

Again there’s the humorless laugh that prickles my heart. “I won’t tell your parents. Believe it or not, I value my life, what little is left of it.”

Again the baby screams. “Your
life
? Are you trying to tell me that your safety has been threatened?” I whisper.